Count the Ways
by rebeldivaluv
Summary: Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.
1. I

**Title:** Count the Ways**  
Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur; minor Gwen/Lancelot  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.

**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**Author's Notes: **So this idea came to me when I found an Arthur/Gwen wallpaper with the words from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's famous Sonnet XLIII, _"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways" _on it. I have held a long affinity for EBB's work—I even wrote my final paper in Women Writers on her—so I never need much of an excuse to reread the Sonnets. The wallpaper made me grab my old copy and dive in again, and while I was reading them the thought kept coming to me: reinterpreted, almost of these work for aspects of Arthur & Gwen's relationship. The result is this, an odd collection of short stories, loosely bound together (they all operate in the same universe, though they are not in chronological order), and often only loosely prompted by each sonnet. At first, I intended to wait until I had the entire collection finished to post, but in my entire life, I've never been able to hold to a goal like that. I hope you enjoy!

**I. **

"_Guess now who holds thee?"—"Death," I said. But, there,  
The silver answer rang,—"Not Death, but Love."_

In the last thirty-six hours, Gwen has been abducted, forced to impersonate her mistress, and locked in a dungeon cell. All of that pales in comparison to the loneliness of awaiting a ransom she knows will never come.

She almost wishes she had refused to don Morgana's dress and let that ruffian kill her. The last time she was in a dungeon—when Uther convicted her of sorcery—she decided the worst part of death was the anticipation. She would much rather die from a sudden, surprise stroke than feel the hour slowly approaching.

With still fresh grief, Gwen's thoughts turn toward her father. Had he suffered? Had he seen the blow coming? What were his last words, his last thoughts? She thinks it likely they were of her, and that sends another wave of sorrow straight to her heart. How she aches for him now! For his gentle heart to comfort her, his strong arms to hold her close.

She knows it is a ridiculous wish. Even if her father were still alive, he could never reach her in this terrible place. She should be grateful he will be spared the pain of losing his only daughter.

But it is terrifying to know oneself completely alone in the world. She has had fleeting sensations of this utter desolation over the past months—when she laid her father's body in the ground, alone because Elyan did not bother returning; the first night back home, spent entirely in tears; the day she gave Tom's bed away to a neighboring family; every morning and evening passing by the silent, unlit forge—but nothing as shattering as the knowledge she will die here, unmourned by anyone.

Her musings travel even farther back, to the deathbed of her mother. Tears pool in her eyes as she sees again the strong, vital figure grown sallow and weak from long illness. She can still hear her father's sobs and her baby brother's shrieks for, "Mama! Mama!" Mostly, she remembers holding onto Mama's hand as tightly as she could, as though she could hold her mother's soul to earth by the strength of her touch alone.

Gwen longs for someone to hold onto at this moment.

Morgana is probably safe in Camelot by now. Gwen is grateful for this. If she is to die, at least her life is given in service of a friend. That is what her mistress has become to her. Morgana helped exonerate her from Uther's charges and supported her through the days after Tom's murder.

Gwen knows Morgana cares for her, but she is practical enough to realize that Morgana will forget her in time. Their bond is transitory, and Morgana's life and concerns are too vast to focus for long on the life of one servant.

Merlin will grieve for her, she believes. Once, at the height of her silly crush on him, Gwen had asked him to remember her. Though that infatuation faded, their friendship is strong and real. Merlin will miss her when she does not return. But Gwen knows equally well that he will not hesitate to befriend Morgana's next maid. He will go on helping Gaius and serving Arthur, his life fundamentally unchanged.

And Elyan? Gwen is not even sure where he lives now, if he has a home at all. Years may pass before he even learns of her death. Her brother is many things she disapproves, but never heartless, and he will mourn and reproach himself then. She wishes she could see him one last time.

Gwen tries hard not to think of Arthur, though he is almost all she has thought of the last few weeks. She can still feel the warmth of his lips on hers, still see his face as she rode away. But she can also hear the words he spoke, words laced with regret but clear in their intent to break all ties. _"…my father would never understand._"

Uther will not send the ransom, let alone an army led by his only son, to the rescue of a lowly servant. Gwen has moments where she lets herself hope that Arthur will defy his father—he did once before when Merlin's life was at stake—and bring the Knights of Camelot to her rescue.

Reality always returns with the echo of his words.

"_I'm afraid my father would never understand."_

Arthur will not come. The ransom won't be paid. There is no hope.

Everything changes when Hengist forces her to attend the banquet, and she sees Lancelot. Her vain wishes and prayers all unite in his person—hope of rescue, someone who will not forget her, a hand to hold.

Gwen dispenses with her usual practicality; she does not stop to question if her emotions are real or facades induced by stress and fear. She swears eternal devotion to a man she barely knows and feels no qualms at doing so. If they are going to die, at least it will be with love in their hearts; if, by some miracle, they survive, it will remain a perfect, unsullied memory.

(Later, she will wonder if she would have been so quick to profess her feelings to Lancelot if she had known Arthur was coming. She doesn't like what that says about her.)

When Lancelot's plan fails, she awaits death with his hand grasped tightly in hers. _It is enough_, she thinks.

Then Arthur comes to their rescue, and she sees the hearts of both men break in front of her eyes. She is grateful—so grateful—to be free, but her tongue is tied. Unsure of Arthur's motives, she cannot even summon the nerve to say, "Thank you."

(Over a year later, Arthur will save her from another castle, another dungeon. That time, when all the chaos is over, she will remember to thank him. Arthur will tell her, "it's what you do when you love someone." She will think of that moment, searching Arthur's face across the campfire with Lancelot by her side. And she will finally know the reason he came.)


	2. II

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur**  
Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.

**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**Authur's Notes: **Wow, I forgot to finish putting these up here, sorry. Wish I could say the story was finished. It's not. But I do have the first four, so I'll finish putting them up on ff-dot-net, and maybe it will inspire me to write some more of them.

**II.**

"_Nay" is worse  
From God than from all others, O my friend!_

It takes her several minutes to work up the courage to knock on Arthur's door. She has known for months—known since Vivian—that this day would come. She has even told him. _"One day, you will find your real princess."_

In her head, Guinevere has known. But her heart has been treacherous, finding hope in Arthur's searing glances, yearning toward his touch, longing for his kiss…

It is all at an end now. She must make Arthur see that. She must make her own heart believe it.

Still, it takes her ten minutes to knock on his door.

"Guinevere!" Surprise and pleasure and awkwardness all lace Arthur's tone. Her foolish heart beats faster at the way he says her name.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't just turn up like this."

Arthur's face falls immediately, and she hates that. She hates him for wearing his heart on his sleeve, and she hates herself for continually refusing that noble heart. "It's all right, Guinevere. You know you are always welcome. Come in."

He retreats into his chambers without waiting to see if she follows. Gwen wonders if that is to put her at ease or to retain a respectable distance—a distance that must, and will, only widen in the years to come.

Having made it this far, she does not hesitate to say why she is here. "Everyone's talking about your marriage to Elena."

Arthur crosses his arms as he stands in the light of the sun. She sees his lips work, trying to find words to say, and realizes she doesn't want to hear them. She must give the speech she has prepared and escape before her heart unravels like frayed cloth at Arthur's feet.

"I know you said that it isn't what you wanted, but I also know that you can't always have what you want. I know that very well." All her resolutions to be strong are failing her. She can hear the tremor in her own voice. She refuses to cry. She will not cry. Not over this. This was inevitable.

"Is what I want really that insane?"

"Yes, Arthur. From anyone's perspective, apart from yours and mine—" Gwen's voice nearly breaks. _Yours and mine._ As though Arthur Pendragon's name has any business being paired with hers, a mere serving girl. They should never be spoken with the same breath, never enter the same thought. "_—_it's completely insane."

Arthur turns toward her for the first time as he says, "Then I'm happy being insane."

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. How can he say—how can he _feel_ such things for her? It _is_ madness; it must be. Yet it has lasted all this time…

"I'm sure it's better than being miserable."

At his defeated words, she must speak. Arthur is not born to a life of misery. If she thought she was condemning him to that, she could never let him go, not for anyone or anything. "I don't think she will make you miserable. She has a good heart."

"As do you." Gwen reads the rest of Arthur's sentence in his tear-filled eyes: _And you hold mine._

Guinevere takes a breath and forces herself to do the hardest thing of her life—relinquish all claim on that heart. "We both know it can't be."

"If I do it—" She hears Arthur's agreement and surrender in those few words. They hurt more than she thought they would. "If I marry her, what will you do?"

"I will watch you grow into the king that Camelot deserves. It is as it should be."

Arthur lifts his chin and looks away. Gwen sees him struggling for control and wonders if now is the moment to leave.

"It is anything but that," Arthur finally replies.

She hesitates and knows she shouldn't. "Sire?"

"If things were as they should be, then you would be a princess, my equal in station…as you are in every other way."

"We cannot change how we were born. I can no more be royalty, than you could be a blacksmith. The fates decided that long ago."

"Then they made a mistake." Arthur's voice is sharp and strong again. His blue eyes blaze with conviction. In two steps, the distance between them is erased. He cradles her face in his hands, his warm, gentle touch burning through her skin. "How can I hope to be a good king without you?"

If he kisses her now, her resistance will crumble entirely. She takes his hands in her own and kisses the knuckles, so white and fine against her dark, work-roughened fingers. "We have each our duty in this life, milord. Ours do not lie together."

Gwen turns and walks quickly toward the door, praying he will not reach for her again. She feels the utter pointlessness of trying not to love this man and will not allow him to see her weakness.

"Guinevere—"

She stops with one hand on the door, but does not turn around. It is difficult enough to hear the longing in his voice; she cannot see it on his face.

"I never loved another."

The echo of his words after the Vivian debacle reach straight into her gut and sear like one of her father's hot irons. She flees, choking on her tears, and thinks somewhere in the heavens, God is laughing at her pain.


	3. III

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur**  
Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.

**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**III.**

_Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!  
Unlike our uses and our destinies!_

Following her mother's death, Guinevere, in addition to taking charge of the home and little Elyan, begins to sell her sewing to supplement her father's income. Her mother taught her well; beyond her clean, straight stitches, Gwen has a gift with embroidery. Her work is praised by all she serves, and word of mouth eventually makes its way through the Court.

At a timid thirteen years of age, Gwen is summoned to the castle and commissioned to provide three new dresses for King Uther's ward, the Lady Morgana. Lady Morgana is a girl almost exactly the same age as Gwen, though considerably taller, as Gwen discovers when she arrives to take the lady's measurements. Morgana is still in the awkward stage of early adolescence, but with her green eyes and thick, shining black hair, she seems sure to become a great beauty. Gwen can already envision the dresses which will flatter her—warm velvet, bold colors, tangled vine embroidery along the sleeves.

Though somewhat reticent at first, Gwen is set at ease by Morgana's constant prattle. She only wishes the lady could stand still while she talked. But Lady Morgana is highly-strung and easily riled. She complains about her nurse—"Honestly, I'm not a child any longer!"_ —_about Prince Arthur—"the stupidest, most annoying spoiled brat I've ever had the misfortune to meet!"_ —_even the king himself—"He never lets me do anything! I hate him! I wish he'd never brought me here in the first place."

Gwen's ears are on fire with the things she hears. The royal family are hardly ever mentioned in her home, and then only with distant respect. Sometimes, in town, she overhears whispers of dissatisfaction with King Uther's rule, but those voices are hushed by fear. Morgana is entirely fearless. Despite herself, Gwen is drawn to the girl so different from herself.

The next time she comes to the castle—for Morgana's first fitting—she interrupts a row between the king and his ward.

"I do not need a nurse! I would be better served by a maid my own age, someone I could actually talk to. I wouldn't be so alone in this wretched place." Morgana's eyes light on Guinevere, trying to be invisible in the entry to her chambers. "Gwen could do it, couldn't you, Gwen?"

There follows shouting from King Uther and tears from Morgana, and Gwen wishes several times that she could sink into the stones beneath her feet. In the end, Morgana gets her way. Guinevere, daughter of Tom the blacksmith, is appointed maidservant to Lady Morgana.

Her life is forever changed.

During the first few months, she will wonder if it is possible to die from exhaustion. Gwen awakes each morning hours before dawn to prepare breakfast for her father and Elyan, to pack them lunches and to start the soup or stew which will be their supper—if Elyan remembers to keep the fire lit and the pot from boiling over. He is so young, and his head so often in the clouds, that at least once a week he forgets. Then there is nothing but bread and cheese—if they are fortunate—before bed.

Gwen has to be at the castle by sunrise to light Morgana's hearth, prepare her tea, and haul and heat the water for her bath. Her day will consist of any number of chores from mending dresses to scrubbing floors, laundering linens, or serving meals. There are hours spent with the Masters in Learning, something Gwen enjoys far more than Lady Morgana or Prince Arthur; she absorbs the knowledge like a sponge, while trying to look as though she's not listening at all. There are days accompanying Morgana on horseback and even—much to Uther's and Arthur's annoyance—time spent on the training grounds, where Morgana spars as fiercely as any of the boys.

Gwen cannot leave the castle until after Morgana is asleep. Even then, there is often some neglected cleaning that must be finished before she returns home. If Morgana is having one of her bad weeks with nightmares, Gwen feels obligated to rest on a chair in the antechamber, so her mistress does not wake alone.

For even with all the hard work, the endless hours and thankless tasks, Gwen grows to love the Lady Morgana. She does not think of her as a friend exactly—Morgana is often demanding, occasionally haughty, and invariably difficult—but Gwen feels toward her something akin to what she feels toward Elyan. A need to care for and protect them both as, irritating though they can be, they are really just lost, motherless children.

(It never occurs to Gwen that she, too, is an orphaned child. She stopped thinking of herself as a girl the day they laid her mother in the ground.)

Part of being Morgana's maid is listening to her litany of grievances against everyone and everything in Camelot. Sometimes, Gwen is amused by Morgana's rants, occasionally irritated. But sometimes, Gwen agrees wholeheartedly with her mistress, even if she would never have the nerve to say it.

Especially when it comes to Prince Arthur.

Guinevere gets her first glimpse of Uther's only son at dinner on her first day in service. She has been instructed to stand away from the table and watch the way the royal family is served, in preparation for her assuming this duty later. She can't help it if she observes the family as much as the food they're eating.

Arthur is a boisterous, pink-cheeked boy, perhaps a year or so younger than Morgana. He has not yet begun the transformation to manhood, but he holds himself differently than the boys Gwen knows. Shoulders back, chin high—she can almost see his father's crown on his head.

He begins the meal by regaling his father with stories of his triumph in a wrestling match and a knife-throwing constest, while Morgana _hmmph_'s and rolls her eyes and expresses her disdain in as many unsubtle ways as possible.

Eventually, Uther asks, "Tell me, Arthur, what will you do when you are king?" Gwen will soon discover this is one of Uther's favorite games to play with his son.

Arthur doesn't hesitate a moment. "When I'm king, there will be a tournament every day of the week. Jousting on Monday, swords on Tuesday, archery on Wednesday, melee on Thursday, mace on Friday. And I will win them all!" His small chest inflates with pride.

"Ha!" Morgana scoffs. "Even if you were good enough to win—which you're not—kings aren't allowed to fight in their own tournaments. Everyone knows that."

"That's a stupid rule. I'll change that, too, when I'm king. And I will go on epic quests every weekend and line the throne room with the heads of all the beasts I kill. It's a pity you killed all the dragons, Father. I should like to kill a dragon."

"I should like to see you try, so I could laugh at your stupid, fat head on fire!"

After that, dinner conversation rapidly degenerates into name-calling and blowing raspberries. When Arthur chucks a drumstick at Morgana's head, Uther finally loses patience and sends them both away.

If that first evening was not enough to seal Gwen's dislike for the future king of Camelot, the first time she removes a frog from Morgana's bedsheets is. There follows an all-out war between the quasi-siblings in which the servants bear the brunt of the hardship, having to clean eggs off mirrors, apply ointments to rashes, and—on one horribly memorable day—remove a snake from Morgana's jewelry box.

Gwen is not outwardly volatile like her mistress, but in the privacy of her own heart, she hates Arthur Pendragon.

* * *

"Arthur, when you're king, what will you do?"

"I will make Morgana cut off all her hair and wear it as a shirt!"

* * *

Opinion on him throughout the castle is mixed. The knights who train him, Sir Ector and Sir Kay, while gruff to his face, praise the prince to the stars when he's not around. Despite her prejudice, Gwen can see why.

Though younger and smaller than most of the other squires, Arthur is fierce and unafraid. No matter how hard he's knocked to the ground, he jumps back to his feet. He fights smart, too, turns every error of his opponent's to his own advantage. Most amazing of all, he fights fair, never striking when a combatant loses their weapon or turns their back.

* * *

"What will you do as king, my son?"

"I will pass a law against boring speeches. There will be a timer by my throne, and no one will be allowed to speak for longer than a minute, or they have to fight me in mortal combat."

* * *

He is the bane of the kitchens, constantly stealing food and upsetting delicacies. Even so, he manages to avoid punishment with a crooked grin that makes the old cook smile and say, "Bless him."

* * *

"What will you do when you are king?"

"I will have pickled eggs for breakfast every day."

* * *

Once a year, during the festival of Yule, Uther throws open the gates of Camelot and feeds all who are poor and hungry. The populace is actually admitted into the great banqueting hall to sup with their king.

Gwen stands in her usual place behind Morgana, but it is all she can do to stay on her feet. She, along with every other servant in the castle, has spent the last forty-eight hours preparing food for Uther's act of generosity. But she cannot resent her lost sleep as she looks at all the happy faces, flushed with food and drink and warmth.

Uther, also flush with holiday spirit, turns to his son and asks, "So, Arthur, what will you do when you are king?"

The three years since Gwen has come to work at the castle have greatly changed the young prince. His face has lost the roundness of childhood, though it retains its boyish innocence and charm. His growth spurt last summer has added six inches to his height, and his voice has deepened to a pleasing, rough timbre.

He is, unfortunately, still a prat.

But this time, Arthur does not rush to give a ridiculous answer to his father's familiar question. His eyes roam the full hall, an unusually thoughtful expression on his face.

"When I am king," says Arthur finally, slowly, and Gwen feels strange shivers run through her at the power in his voice. "When I am king, Father, the gates of Camelot will stand open everyday. All the poor and hungry will find food, all weary travelers will find rest, and all in need of aid will find a strong arm to defend them."

The breath rushes from Gwen's body. She stares at Arthur as though she's never seen him before. Perhaps she hasn't. The canker in her side is gone, and what is left is a golden-haired, golden-hearted prince she would gladly serve her whole life long.

Uther tries to laugh off Arthur's words, but is clearly uneasy. Ever thereafter, Gwen notices that Uther no longer asks what Arthur will do as king—he tells him instead. "When you are king, you will…"

(Guinevere forgets this fleeting moment. In the day to day dealing with Arthur, the prat, she once again loses sight of Arthur, the prince. Until she stands in a large circle in a small home in a poor village and listens to Arthur rally the people with cries of freedom and equality. The shivers return.)


	4. IV

**Title:** Count the Ways

**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur; minor Gwen/Lancelot

**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.

**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, I was supposed to have this up a year ago. Sorry for that. But here's what I'm wondering. I've managed to write eight more of these, but not chronologically, scattered throughout the forty-four. Given my history of permanent WIPs, I'm not sure when I'll finish the rest, if ever, and there's always the possibility that what I've written will be jossed by series five. So...for anyone who cares enough to review, should I put up the rest of what I've written, or save it until it's in the sonnet order? Thanks for all comments.

**IV.**

_And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor  
For hand of thine?_

Gwen is almost grateful for the dark night around her as she hauls her bucket across Camelot's lower town. It conceals the trembling of her body. She shakes not from cold—it is a warm evening in late summer—nor from fear—she often makes the longer walk from the castle to her home at hours later than this. The emotion rushing through her system now is nothing but rage.

Of all the men she has ever met, Arthur Pendragon is _the _most arrogant, obnoxious, self-absorbed…she fumbles mentally, searching for a bad enough word to call him.

_Dollop-head, _Merlin's voice rings in her head. _Prat. Clotpole. _

All of those, Gwen decides. And worse.

It is not enough that she has to take time off work, telling Morgana she has cousins visiting, lying to her mistress and going unpaid, so that she can cook and clean for Arthur during his mad scheme. Not enough that she has spent more of her hard-earned money on food for these few days than she usually spends in a month. All of this without a word of thanks, mind you.

No, Prince Arthur needs a wash, as well. So Gwen, beaten-down, blistered, and exhausted as she is, must trudge across town for water. Water she'll no doubt have to heat and prepare with her last sprig of lavender before it's worthy of washing his royal sweat.

She finally reaches the town pump and revives herself with the first splash of water, tossing it on her face and neck. The cool, refreshing liquid calms her heated blood. She inhales deeply of the fresh night air and tries to regain her habitual control.

After all, it's not like looking after spoiled nobles is anything new to her. She has spent the better part of the last ten years waiting on Morgana and the Pendragon family. Arthur's arrogance should barely register by now.

_He has never been in my home before,_ she thinks. Of course, that is the answer.

In the castle, she is used to playing a role, humbling herself, answering summons and serving without a thought of acknowledgment. But her home is Gwen's retreat, her place of safety from the demands of others. Arthur is ruining that with his unthinking rudeness.

_It's a pity, _she decides, as she fills the bucket to the brim and begins the more difficult journey home. Arthur has so many wonderful qualities—courage, eloquence, intelligence, even a good heart buried under all that bravado—he could be a much better king than his farther, if only he could be made to look beyond his own confined little world. If he could see people, instead of servants…equals, instead of peasants…men, instead of subjects…

Moments like these are when Gwen misses her mother most. Her mum would know what to say to make Arthur see the error of his ways. She had a knack for knowing what people needed to hear and the way to say it without giving offense. Gwen still remembers the day Leon started "putting on airs," as her mother termed it, at the dinner table. A few well-chosen words from Mama about children starving in the streets, and food that had not been edible was suddenly delicious.

Or the time Gwen pushed Elyan in the mud, and Mama cooed to him the entire time she made Gwen wash his dirty, chubby little body. By the time she was finished, Elyan's smile and his soft baby skin had ensured that Gwen could never bear to hurt him—or see him hurt—again.

Guinevere does not have her mother's wisdom, and she certainly doesn't have her tact. Things bubble up inside her until she cannot contain them any longer; they always seem to burst out in the most horrible way possible, too. Like fumbling her way into telling the peasant boy from Ealdor that she likes him, or yelling at the Crown Prince of Camelot over a bowl of porridge.

The last thing she needs is another incident like that, so she takes a few more deep breaths before she enters her home.

She need not have bothered.

Arthur has fallen asleep, sprawled across her one, small pallet. He lays on his chest, still clothed except for his boots, one arm dangling off the side, bare feet hanging over the foot of the bed.

Gwen looks down at the full bucket of water, for which she walked all the way across town. For one brief instant, she contemplates emptying it on his royal head. But she would be the one responsible for cleaning up the mess, and how would she ever explain why she had done such a thing? The momentary satisfaction wasn't worth the time in the castle dungeons which would surely follow.

Arthur snores, a deep, rattling, completely common sound. Gwen studies his face, relaxed and boyish in sleep. His tousled hair falls across his forehead.

With a sigh, she puts down the water and pulls her extra blanket out of the cupboard. She pulls Arthur's arm back onto the cot, then covers him from shoulders to toes. She reaches out and pushes the hair off his face.

Arthur stirs, and Gwen pulls away quickly. She cradles her trespassing fingers against her chest and watches as he shifts, rolling onto his side. His eyes stay closed. Gwen lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and rushes to her makeshift bed at the back of the house.

Arthur stops snoring.

Later, she'll be glad she figured out that little trick. That night, she only knows her fingers tingle.


	5. V

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**V.**

_What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,  
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn  
Through the ashen greyness._

"I just don't understand." She doesn't understand anything anymore, not truth, not justice, not Camelot. Not even her own father. "Why'd he try to escape? His trial was this morning."

Gwen looks to Merlin, as though he has the answer. As though there is any answer to be had. As though it would lessen this ache inside if there was.

A soft tap sounds against the half-open door. Prince Arthur enters without waiting for a response.

Long-ingrained habit brings Gwen to her feet. She curtseys and says a respectful, "Sire," even as she wonders why she bothers. Arthur is the one who ordered her father's arrest, who set all this in motion. Why should she give him even the semblance of honour?

"Guinevere, I..." He approaches her slowly, almost timidly, "want you to know that your job is safe."

Gwen has not even considered her position in the royal household. She cannot think of it, while her father's body grows ever colder, and she still does not understand _why_.

"And that your home is yours for life. I guarantee you that."

Her home. Her home where her father will never clean his boots by the fire, or stick his fingers in the stew when he thinks she's not looking, or bring her the first snowdrops of spring...

"I know that, under the circumstances, it's not much, but...anything you want, anything you need...all you have to do is ask." Arthur glances at Merlin, implying they are an united front, that they are both her friends.

Through the fogged numbness in her brain, Gwen realizes that Arthur is trying to be kind. Perhaps it is guilt, perhaps because of her friendships with Merlin and Morgana. Maybe it is just because he is a kind man.

A kind man who bears some responsibility for the death of the person she loves—_no, loved_, she thinks with a hollow ache—most in the world.

Gwen's head pounds, her body is tired, her heart in tatters. She doesn't know whether to scream at Arthur, at the world, or to curl into a ball and cry. She wants Dad.

Arthur turns to leave, then quickly twists back. "I'm sorry," he says.

It is the first thing he has said which makes sense to her. An acknowledgment that Uther was wrong, and apology for his role in it with two little words.

Her grief is still raw and fresh; she knows it will only grow harder to bear in the days to come. But Arthur's apology has saved her from bitterness.

Gwen thanks him.


	6. VI

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**VI.**

_...The widest land  
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine  
With pulses that beat double._

He almost never kisses her goodbye.

It is three years into their marriage before Gwen recognizes this pattern. Arthur is an affectionate husband, almost scandalously so in the eyes of the Council. They feel he lowered himself enough in marrying a blacksmith's daughter; must he continue so openly infatuated? Arthur ignores them—he's getting much better at that—and walks through the lower town with his wife. He never lets go of her hand.

Gwen is used to kisses from Arthur. Good night and good morning kisses, separating for their daily schedules kisses, I'm sorry kisses, quick pecks in public, lingering I-love-you embraces in private. In the midst of being so constantly adored, it takes Gwen all those years to realize when Arthur leaves Camelot—for battle, or adventure, or his latest, hopeless quest—his lips hardly ever touch hers.

She receives hugs and words of advice in their chambers, and official declarations leaving her in command before the Court. There may be a reassuring press of her hand or pat on her shoulder. On rare occasions, he touches his lips to her cheek or forehead, but that, Gwen decides, does not count.

When he returns—he always, always does, and she will not think of a day when he does not—she is deluged in kisses. The public reunion is marked by a real, if sedate embrace. But when affairs of state have been addressed and they barricade themselves in their room for the next twenty-four (or thirty-six, or that one time they managed a full seventy-two with no national crises to intrude) hours, his lips will love every inch of her body. They will make her breath stop and the world disappear and all those other cliches that Gwen never really believed in until Arthur come true.

Once, after she figures it out, she asks him. They are lying naked and spent, but still clinging to each other. He has been gone so long this time; if it weren't for Merlin, he would have died a dozen times over. What else is there to do but hold him tight until she absolutely has to let him go?

So she asks him. "Arthur, why don't you kiss me goodbye?" Arthur is half-asleep. Hair tousled, face pink, drying from sweat, looking ludicrously innocent, and she loves him so she is surprised her body can contain it. "I hope you don't think I would make a scene, or beg you to stay, or anything so foolish."

Arthur blinks his eyes open in surprise. He chuckles and kisses the tip of her nose. "Of course not. You're probably glad to get rid of me every few months."

That response gets nothing but a none-too-gentle pinch and an irritated, "Arthur!"

He laughs again and pulls her closer, though Gwen isn't sure how he manages. "I'm the one who would break, Guinevere."

"What?"

"If I let myself even think that every time I leave you, it could be the last time...the last time I kissed you...I couldn't handle it. So I tell myself I'll kiss you the next time I see you. It's a promise I haven't broken yet."

She kisses him, hard, and prays she never gets that goodbye kiss. It is a vain prayer, though, and Gwen knows it as she sends her thoughts winging to every deity who may be listening.

In her life with Arthur, there are three goodbye kisses.

The first is in a dusty castle ruin, when Arthur has just shown everyone the man she had always seen inside him. He is heading into battle against an immortal army, so she forgives him his momentary doubt. But she never doubts, and he kisses her hello again for all of Camelot to see.

The second time, he is about to lead his far-outnumbered men against an army of invading Gauls. He leaves her with instructions on where to flee when the time comes and the searing, terrifying reality of his mouth on hers. But Arthur has forgot how many friends he's made in Albion; some behind-the-scenes diplomacy, and Gwen finds herself heading an army to her husband's rescue. She kisses him hello between the clash of swords and the crash of waves from the sea.

But when Arthur's golden hair has turn to spun silver, when Gwen's fingers can trace the lines that thirty, forty, fifty years of kingship have left on her husband's beloved face, he kisses her goodbye once more. Gentle and chaste, as loving as ever, his lips move across hers. "Goodbye, love," he whispers.

Gwen breaks her word for the first time in their marriage. She cries and begs and makes a scene, and Arthur leaves anyway, as she knew he would, as she knew he must. He goes to attempt peace once more with Mordred and Morgana. He leaves for the love of Camelot and of Albion, which he and Merlin and Guinevere have built.

He fails. The battle is fought, and everyone loses.

After, Gwen kisses him. His lips are cold.


	7. X

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**X.**

_And love is fire. And when I say at need  
_I love thee..._mark!..._I love thee—_in thy sight  
I stand transfigured, glorified aright..._

Arthur's birthday approaches. Gwen has never given him a birthday gift before. Through all these years of stumbling toward each other, she never felt secure enough to give him anything. Now, she does. This has left her with a new conundrum. What exactly does a humble serving maid give the Crown Prince of Camelot? What can anyone give him that he lacks?

She remembers previous celebrations of Arthur's birth. They all involved gifts of weaponry, shields, armour. A horse or two, truly atrocious jewelry, woven items of clothing and decoration that all seemed to feature the Pendragon crest. None of these would feel right coming from her, even if she could afford them.

Arthur deserves a perfect birthday. This year has been terrible for him, what with Morgana's betrayal, Uther's illness, and the heavy pressure of ruling Camelot. And now Lancelot's death...

Gwen knows there has been a tension between them since her confession at Lancelot's memorial. Arthur has been walking on eggshells around her, afraid of intruding on her grief, bearing his alone. She hasn't helped the situation. Her guilt—it is her fault Lancelot died—her wretched, unforgivable relief—Arthur lives, no matter the cost—have caused her to avoid Arthur's company rather than seek it.

No more. Arthur's birthday is almost upon them, and Gwen is determined it shall be a happy one, the burying of old ghosts, and the beginnings of a bright future. And just like that, she knows what she can give him, what no one else can.

Her gift requires conspirators, which she has no trouble recruiting. It also demands several hours of uninterrupted time with Arthur, something a quick glance at his schedule—courtesy of Merlin—shows to be impossible. The anniversary of the prince's birth is a national holiday. There are proclamations to be read, envoys to be met, a seven-course feast, and a troop of traveling acrobats.

Gwen is a smart, resourceful girl. She improvises and plans her surprise for the night before—midnight to be exact. The first birthday wishes Arthur receives will come from her.

She ransacks her wardrobe, pulling out her white dress with the peach bodice. It is the most beautiful gown she owns and, as such, has been shut away for months while she waits on the broken king. Gwen dons it, along with her heavy white shawl. She gathers her supplies—blankets, pillows, and a loaded picnic basket—and heads for the woods.

The moon shines full and high. Gwen lights no candle as she makes her way to the tinkling brook, across the smooth stones, to the secluded little hollow where she and Arthur met once before. In view of what happened there, she considered finding another spot, but the memory of that first picnic is too precious to let Uther and Morgana poison it. Here, it must be.

Gwen lights the fire she had in waiting, spreads the blankets and the feast, and waits. The brook shimmers liquid silver in the moonlight. Owls hoot, twigs snap, and Gwen reminds herself there's nothing dangerous in the woods, this close to Camelot. To ease her nerves, she concentrates on the musical sound of the running water and watches the moon inch closer to its zenith.

She hears them before she sees them.

"...supposed monster look like?"

"Oh, it's...terrifying, yeah. Head of a wolf, wings of a bat, and claws, like a...cat?"

Gwen smothers a laugh.

"A cat? Merlin, if you woke me in the middle of the night to chase some drink-inspired delusion, I'll-" But Arthur never lists Merlin's new punishments. At that moment, he steps onto the creek bank and spots Guinevere.

She rises slowly to her feet. "Happy birthday, Arthur."

He stands frozen on the other side of the brook. "Guinevere, what are you...this is...you look..."

"I believe the missing words are: doing here, amazing, and beautiful," supplies Merlin with his cheeky grin.

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur grabs Merlin by the shoulder and turns him around. "You can leave now."

"I don't know...You might need a chaperone."

"Mer_lin_!"

"All right, all right. Just remember, you're supposed to be a _noble_ prince." With one last ridiculous smile, Merlin crashes into the woods. Gwen pretends not to see Arthur's shove that precedes his departure.

"Guinevere, truly, this is..." Arthur gingerly crosses the stream. Gwen is reasonably sure that getting his feet wet is not the fear that makes him cautious. "What is this?"

"I told you. We're celebrating your birthday." She takes him by the hand, encourages him to sit among the cushions. While she fills his plate, she adds, "I thought what you would like most on this day was some time and space to be Arthur. Just Arthur." He smiles at her when she hands him the snack, a loving smile, full of remembrance. "I thought about renting a patch of land and a hut, but ten minutes of the dirt and smell would make you question why you ever wanted to be a farmer."

"Guinevere, this is lovely, perfect even, but we can't stay. My father-"

"His night nurse is with him, and Gaius has promised to look in every hour."

"But if there were some emergency in Camelot..."

"Merlin would tell them you are on a hunt with Sirs Leon, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan and direct them to Lord Aggravaine instead."

"You've even got my uncle involved in this intrigue?" Arthur seems amused and impressed.

"Er, no, but when has Lord Aggravaine been reluctant to take charge? Your knights are conspirators, I'm afraid; they have made themselves scarce, to avoid being questioned."

"Made themselves scarce? I doubt they've really gone hunting in the middle of the night, with the promise of a feast tomorrow."

"I believe Gwaine said something about a tavern-crawl through the outlying villages."

Arthur emits a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He lays back with his hand to his eyes. "I sincerely hope Camelot is not invaded tomorrow. My best knights won't be able to stand, let alone fight."

Removing his hand from his face, Guinevere cradles it between both of hers and settles all three in her lap. "No more knights, or invasions, or even Camelot. Just Arthur, remember?"

"Just Arthur," he promises, pushing himself onto his elbow and kissing her gently. "And just Guinevere."

He tells jokes while they eat, and Gwen can't remember the last time she laughed so hard. Afterward, they lay back and name the stars. Gwen is acutely aware of every time Arthur's thumb brushes the inside of her wrist as their hands rest entangled. Her heart speeds until she can hear it, a desperate pounding in her ears.

She thinks now of her perfect plan and wonders how this must seem to Arthur. A secret, secluded rendezvous in the middle of the night, an alibi already provided...but he must know if she'd intended anything that intimate, she would never have involved so many. Certainly not Gaius. Or her brother.

Why assume Arthur thinks anything of the kind? All he is doing is sweeping the pad of his thumb across the sensitive flesh on her wrist. Hardly the event of which scandals are made.

No, the problem isn't Arthur. It's her, her heart thudding through her chest, her racing pulse, her lips parted in expectation of...

Gwen decided years ago that she would _not _sleep with Arthur Pendragon. Back in the beginning, when his kisses made her dizzy, but she was sure his infatuation wouldn't outlast the month. Guinevere was a sensible girl, and, even if she might sometimes wonder what it would be like, she wasn't going to throw away her reputation, her chance of a good marriage, for a fling.

She decided again when she realized Arthur truly did love her, but was still going to marry some princess one day. By that time, it was less about marital chances—who but Arthur would she ever want to marry?-and more about minimizing her eventual, inevitable heartbreak.

One day, in this very forest, under these very trees, she almost forgot her vow. Arthur's mouth moving under hers, kissing him more deeply than ever before, her hands free to roam and touch and _claim _him, all she could think was he was hers, she was his. But Uther and Morgana showed up, and she added another note to her mental list of reasons not to sleep with Arthur Pendragon: it could get her killed.

Then he kissed her in a public square, and her terrifying, silent dream took form. Arthur means to marry her someday, to make her his queen. But if that be the case, she must be beyond reproach. The Council, lords, even the populace will raise every possible objection to their adored Arthur marrying someone like Gwen—her poverty, her common birth, the lack of political advantage. She must not give them this to add. She must not sleep with Arthur until after the wedding...if there ever is a wedding.

These are the thoughts that come to her as Arthur continues to name stars and stroke her wrist, the logic by which she combats the urge to turn and kiss his crooked smile.

"You haven't said anything in a while," Arthur says and makes everything worse by shifting to look at her. "Guess it's getting late. We should go to bed." Gwen's head snaps toward him. Even in the waning firelight, she can see him blush. "Not...I didn't mean...back to Camelot...me, to my chambers, and you, to-"

He doesn't finish his stammered explanation. He is stopped by her mouth on his. Arthur's surprise gives way to desire; this kiss is deeper and hungrier than any they have shared before. So Gwen can't help feeling confused and a bit deserted when Arthur pulls away and jumps to his feet.

"Like I said, we should be getting back." He refuses to look at her, while he packs away the remains of their picnic.

"Arthur, I don't understand." She places a hand on his shoulder and feels him flinch. "What's wrong? Talk to me."

"It shouldn't happen like this." Arthur glances up at her, his face the mottled red and white of embarrassment.

"Like what?"

His hand plays with one of her curls, eyes centering on her hair and not her eyes. "You should never have to lower yourself for me. Subterfuge and alibis and-"

"Sleeping with you wasn't your present," Gwen blurts out. Now she's the one who cannot look him in the eye.

"I know." He stands and tips her chin up. When she dares to look at him, he is smiling full in her face. "That's not how you think. But, Guinevere, when I take you to bed," Arthur's voice sinks to a husky whisper; shivers run down Gwen's spine, "I don't want there to be anything secret or shameful about it."

It's not exactly a marriage proposal, but it is another promise of a bright future for them. Gwen hides it away in that font of hope that soon will overflow, if Arthur continues to water it with words like these. She cradles his face in her hands and kisses him, not with desire, but with that other, more beautiful thing between them. "Oh, how I love you," she says as she pulls away.

Arthur freezes. Gwen isn't certain he breathes. "Arthur, are you all right?"

"Say that again."

Gwen is not stupid. She knows what words he means; she just doesn't know why. "I love you," she repeats, obedient, though bewildered.

Laughing, Arthur pulls her into his arms. The world spins as he twirls her. His whole face is alight, eyes shining like the stars they've been watching all night have fallen into them.

"Say it again," Arthur demands.

"My lord, this is ridiculous. Put me down," she counters, dizzy. "You're acting like you didn't know before."

"I didn't," Arthur says, as settles her feet back on the ground.

It feels a much harder, longer drop than a few inches for Gwen as his lightly spoken words sink in. "You didn't?"

"No. Well, I hoped, obviously. Sometimes, I even believed, but I learned early on not to take things for granted with you, and you never said, so..." Arthur chuckles and shrugs.

"I never said," Gwen echoes Arthur's words, as she searches her mind for a memory to refute them.

She used to have a rule about not declaring her love for Arthur, too, for her self-preservation. But she forgot about that rule right around the time she stopped telling herself she _wasn't _in love with Arthur.

(To this day, she's not sure when that moment was, but she suspects it might have been when he skipped up the stairs after _not _marrying a princess.)

So, sometime since then, she must have told him. She thinks, and she remembers, "_I never loved another,_" and, "_It's what you do when you love someone,_" "_I will always love you,_" as they were pulling her to her death, and surely then, surely, of all times, then...

She has never told Arthur she loves him before tonight.

"I love you," she almost shouts up at him. She kisses him hard and swift on the mouth, his cheeks, his chin, and peppers them all with endearments. "Love you. Only you. Always you." She steps back, meets his star-filled eyes with her own, and vows, "I love you, Arthur Pendragon, and will do so until the day I die."

Gwen feels she owes him at least another dozen declarations to make up for all the times she has withheld them, but she stops because Arthur kisses her again. The embrace is long and slow and gentle. Gwen melts into Arthur, as the stars must have.

When he pulls away, Arthur caresses her cheek and smiles. "This is shaping up to be the best birthday I've ever had."

(Twenty-four hours later, Gwen will remember that contented look on Arthur's face, the sweet wonder and joy in his voice, and she will weep over the body of a dying king.)


	8. XVII

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**XVII.**

_...God's will devotes  
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.  
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?_

Gwen returns to Camelot with an honour guard. She is met and kissed in the public square by Prince Arthur himself. These are not events which will go unnoticed by the people of Camelot. Yet what her place is to be in this new world Arthur is building, even Gwen does not know.

Elyan is clear on what he thinks she should do. "Move into the castle, and take your place at Court."

"Me? Are you mad? I'm a servant, the daughter of a blacksmith. What right have I to-"

"You are my sister, and I am a knight of Camelot. That gives you every right. Ask Arthur; I'm sure he'll agree with me."

Gwen can't help smiling at her brother's new-found pride and confidence—in Arthur and in himself. But she is not swayed by his arguments. "Arthur will have enough trouble defending your knighthood. And Lancelot's, Gwaine's, Percival's. He doesn't need your relations stirring up trouble, demanding rights they haven't earned."

"Considering you're going to be queen someday-"

"You don't know that!" Gwen flushes as her brother so casually voices the secret, desperate wish of her heart. It seems so much safer locked away inside her, never exposed to the world's cruel reality.

"Arthur loves you, Gwen."

"There is a great difference between loving a maidservant and placing her on the throne of Camelot. When you have been back longer, you'll remember that."

"But-"

"Elyan, if you love me, you will not speak of this again."

Her brother does love her, a fact she has never doubted. He speaks only of Arthur's rigorous training regime while she helps pack his belongings for his move to the knights' quarters.

Gwen's things stay right where they have always been.

–

Force of habit brings her to the servants' entrance of the castle next day. She is not sure there is still a place for her now that Morgana is gone for good—the last time Morgana disappeared, Uther insisted her rooms be kept in readiness for her; they stayed empty and spotless for over a year; now, Gwen wishes her mistress had never returned—unsure if she even wants to work here anymore. She could take up sewing again, or hire a strong labourer to help her run the forge. But these options mean even less time with Arthur, and that is the one one thing she is sure she does not want.

"Wasn't expecting to see you again," the guard says. "Leastways not at this door." But he opens the gate and lets her pass.

Gwen ignores the laughter that follows her into the palace kitchens. She tunes out the whispers and pointed stares of the other servants, servants who have been her friends for years. Head held high, Gwen marches past them until she reaches the senechal. "Have I still a place here?" she asks in a voice loud enough to carry through the room. She will do nothing underhanded. Especially now.

The head steward scrutinizes her from head to toe. "As far as I know. I shall confirm with the prince when I have audience with him."

Gwen wonders what Arthur's reaction will be. Aside from those precious few minutes after her arrival, she has not seen him in the two days since her return. She pushes thoughts of Arthur away. If she is still to be a servant, she will remain as focused and thorough as ever. "Very well. What shall my duties be until then?"

"You can start by cleaning out your former lady's chambers."

The kitchen buzzes again with gossip. Gwen knows how the castle rumour mill works; she has listened to it often enough, though—almost-never participated in it. But she has never been the subject of it before.

(Except once, perhaps, when it was said the prince was completely besotted with her; no, he was just "enjoying her charms;" no, he was under her spell, because she was an enchantress, no, not Gwen, sturdy, reliable Gwen. It just went to show, you never knew people. But Gwen never heard what they said then. She was in a dungeon cell, waiting to die.)

She hears snippets now as she makes the long trek across the kitchens.

"...was maid to the Lady Morgana, and we all know..."

"_Her _life was spared, while even the stableboy was-"

"...helped Sir Leon escape."

"Not really!"

"...kissed her..."

"In broad daylight?"

"...sorceress after all."

Gwen points her eyes straight ahead, keeps walking.

–

White bedspread and curtains. Vanity with cosmetics and jewelry all neatly in their places. Wardrobe full of dresses Gwen has stitched and sewn by hand. Everything in Morgana's chamber looks the same as it did a few weeks ago, before she tried to steal Uther's—her _father's—_throne. As it did a few months ago, before Gwen suspected her of plotting against them all. As it did ten years ago, when Gwen stepped into that room for the very first time.

Tears well in her eyes, and Gwen swipes them aside. Morgana made her choices; she is no longer the girl Gwen knew and served and...loved. There is no point in lying to herself. She loved Morgana, but Morgana is gone. Worse than dead. Gwen knows how to grieve the dead, how to remember all the good times and treasure what they taught her. But even her good memories of Morgana are tainted now.

As Gwen sorts and divides Morgana's possessions—jewelry, for Camelot's treasury; possible magic items for Gaius's inspection; clothes into two large storage chests—she relives the past with a critical eye. _Had she turned against us then? Did she use magic yet? Was she in league with Morgause already? _And most haunting of all, _could I have said something to prevent this? Was there a moment when a word or deed of mine would have saved her?_

Gwen tells herself there wasn't, but she stops trying to hold back the tears. Whatever she became, whenever she became it, Morgana was once Gwen's friend.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Arthur's gentle voice brings her to her senses. She wipes her eyes on her apron, closes the last chest as she rises. "It is my duty, Sire," she says with a slight curtsey.

"Sire? We can't possibly be back to that again." He crosses the space between them and tips up her chin. His blue eyes beg a smile from her lips. "Tell me we are not."

"No, Arthur, but...I don't know where we are."

He drops his hand and sits down on the chest with a heavy sigh. "I don't, either. I don't even know where I am half the time anymore. All these decisions, this responsibility...I'm not ready for it." Arthur slumps forward, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands.

A wave of love and pity washes over her. Gwen sinks to her knees before him and pulls his hands down into hers. "You are, Arthur. I've watched you for years, seen you growing wiser and stronger. Camelot could ask for no better leader."

"And if I fail?" He is clutching her fingers too tightly, like a lifeline.

"Then you will learn from your mistake and try again until you succeed."

"And Morgana?" The prince glances around the room, as though he, too, sees the poisoned ghost of memory all around him. "What can I do about Morgana? How can I right this wrong?"

"I don't know." They cannot restore her to the girl she once was, yet, despite all she has done, how can they hunt and imprison and kill a woman who was once their friend? Because she cannot bear to think of it anymore, Gwen changes the subject. "How fares your father?"

Arthur's shoulders seem to sink under an even heavier burden. "He's...broken. Gaius says he may, in time, recover, but in the meantime, he'll need constant care."

Gwen feels nothing at all for Uther. The things he has done to her, to her father, to his own children have left no pity in her heart for him. But her heart bleeds for Arthur's pain. "I am sorry," she says and means it. She squeezes his fingers, still entwined with hers.

Her action snaps Arthur back to the moment. "Thank you, Guinevere, but that is not why I came." He stands and pulls her with him. "I was told that you were to be found here." His arms wrap around her waist and draw her closer. "I was further informed that you wished to remain in my service."

Gwen's heart pounds against her chest. Arthur's teasing, mildly disapproving words, coupled with Elyan's audible suggestion of her silent dream, are making her believe an impossible thing. "And what did you reply, my lord?"

"I told him you could have any position in my kingdom you pleased, including his, which shut him up quick enough. But, Guinevere, you know you have no need to be a servant anymore."

"Indeed? Why is that?"

Arthur blushes to the roots of his hair. It is adorable and charming and completely shatters all of Guinevere's ridiculous hopes. "Well...I thought...perhaps you might join the Court, live at the castle."

"No," she says firmly and perhaps a little angrily, given the way Arthur drops his hold on her.

"I only meant-"

"I know what you meant, but I also know what people will say. I would give up almost anything for you, Arthur Pendragon, but not my self-respect. I will continue to live in my own home and earn my own living, the best way I know how."

Arthur smiles down at her in that bemused way he has whenever she speaks her mind. "Understood. Would it be too much of a sacrifice of self-respect if I kissed you now?"

"I suppose, just this once." She is smiling when his lips touch hers.

–

When her new duties include nothing more arduous than flower-arranging and clothes-mending, Gwen suspects special treatment. When she receives her week's wages and finds she is being paid twice the money for half the work, she is sure of it.

Gwen doesn't know who to shout at first. The senechal, who has forgotten her decade of faithful service and thinks her merely the prince's kept woman. The servants, her friends, who offer her kind remarks, laced with envy and resentment. Arthur, who only makes it worse by seeking her out every day, wherever she may be. Or herself, for letting this ludicrous situation drag on another minute.

But then there is Arthur. Arthur, whose blue eyes shine every moment he looks at her, whose shoulders always seem straighter and stronger after five minutes conversation with her, whose kisses leave her breathless, and who can make her laugh as no one else ever has. She can never walk away from him. Foolish to pretend.

So she stays. She finishes her assigned duties and then helps unasked wherever she is needed. Cooking, washing dishes, dusting, scrubbing floors, folding laundry. Her fellow servants don't comment on it, but Gwen notices they comment less about her in general. She considers it progress.

One day, she finds the king's meal tray still sitting on the kitchen counter an hour after she prepared it. "Where is Anne?" she asks the cook.

Cook jerks her head toward the door. "Flirting with the guard, I 'spect."

Gwen has been critical of the nurse hired to care for Uther from her first day. Anne spends more time downstairs in the servants' hall than seems compatible with the care the king needs. But Gwen has held her tongue. There has been enough tension between her and the staff already. And, if she is honest, it's Uther, and she doesn't care anymore than the others do.

But this is too much. Throwing open the door, she confronts Anne and her guard follower in an amorous embrace. Gwen refuses to flinch while they make themselves presentable. "Why has the king not been served his dinner?"

Anne, still fumbling with her bodice laces, splutters out a few foul names for Gwen before answering, "It don't matter to him none. He don't touch the stuff. Just a drooling, slobbering idiot, he is."

Gwen raises herself to her full height and looks down her nose at the girl—quite a feat, considering Anne is head and shoulders taller than she. "You are dismissed. Immediately."

Open-mouthed, Anne gapes at her. "You can't dismiss me!"

"Ask the senechal. I think you'll find that I can, and I have." Gwen shuts the door before Anne can formulate her next argument.

She grabs the neglected tray and heads upstairs. Gaius will have to engage a new nurse, but, for this one day, Gwen will wait on the man who killed her father. She hesitates outside the king's bedroom door, overcome by revulsion. Thinking of Arthur's love for his father helps her master it. Gwen will serve Uther, to serve his son.

Opening the door, Gwen finds the room completely dark. The blinds are shut, no fire in the hearth, not even a candle to dispel the gloom. "Sire?" No answer. A foul stench assaults her nostrils, like an overflowing chamberpot.

Gwen sets down the tray upon the long table illuminated by the hall's light. She hears confirmation of the king's presence—the uneven breath of someone quietly crying. "I'll be right back, Sire. I'm going to fetch a light."

She brings back a lit candle and surveys the room thus revealed. It is cleaner than she expected, but then Anne must have known Gaius and Arthur would visit daily. The king lies on his side under rumpled, unwashed blankets. Gwen is sure the odour emanates from him.

Setting down the candle, Gwen heads for the blinds, chatting with forced merriment all the way. "Well, Sire, I think some sunlight would cheer this room, don't you? It's such a beautiful day. Some fresh air, too." She unlatches the window and breathes deeply of the summer breeze. Even with the scent of horses and sheep mingling with sweeter smells of roses and lilacs, the outside air does much to relieve the fetid closeness of the room.

After a few deep lungfuls, Gwen feels brave enough to face King Uther. This is the first time she has seen him since Morgana's treachery, and she is shocked by the broken wreck of a man before her. Somehow, even with all that she's heard, she expected to find Uther unchanged, the same cold rock of a tyrant he's always been.

The king has lost enough weight that his skin appears loose, his frame shrunken. His eyes are red-rimmed and vacant, tears streaming unchecked down his face. But Gwen cannot look away from his hands. It occurs to her only now that she has never seen Uther's hands. When he ruled, when he ate, when he signed edicts _(when he slapped you across the face, when he ordered your father's murder_), he always wore heavy leather gloves. Strange, how such a simple thing could carry so much power, that the lack of gloves convinces Gwen more than anything else that Uther is not the man he was.

"A bath, Sire," she says, more for her benefit than his. It snaps her back into action, gives her movements focus. She starts a fire in the hearth, then heads downstairs to start hauling water. She recruits one of the male servants to help her. He is a simple-minded, affable fellow; more importantly, he is strong as an ox.

While he carries the king to the filled, warm tub, Gwen takes the soiled nightdress and bed linens down to the laundry. She returns in time to see the mighty King Uther placidly being washed by the rough, clumsy hands of a peasant. An uncomfortable mix of emotions assaults Guinevere at the sight, and she is not sure which bothers her more, the sense of pity or of justice.

She pushes both aside and makes the bed.

When the king is clean and dressed, she has the boy carry him to a chair by the window. Then she dismisses him and sets about the arduous task of feeding the king. The best system Gwen can devise is to place the spoon in Uther's hand and move his hand from plate to mouth. He follows her lead unresisting, but makes no effort to help himself.

Once, and only once, the king's eyes land on her with something like recognition. He whispers, "Morgana," and his face contracts in pain. He starts crying again.

After what feels like hours, Uther is clean, fed and settled warmly in his chair. Surely now she can go on her way. But as she is leaving the room, Gwen makes the mistake of looking back. He looks so small, so utterly forlorn. She thinks how Arthur must feel, seeing his once indomitable father growing weaker by the day.

Gwen returns. She takes a seat by the king and tries to think of something, anything, to say. Her eyes light on some papers left on the table, patrol reports, tax documents, dull and outdated, but familiar to the king. She starts reading them aloud. There is no overt change in Uther's demeanor, but Gwen senses that he is listening. He stops crying anyway.

Gwen is still reading an hour later when Gaius makes his daily visit.

"Gwen! I am surprised to see you here. Where is Anne?"

"She has been dismissed. Neglecting her duty."

Gaius clucks his tongue and shakes his head. "I did wonder about her, but she came highly recommended. It's so hard to find a qualified nurse these days." The entire time he is speaking to her, Gaius is making a thorough, gentle examination of the king. Gwen can only admire the physician's skill. "Someone who can follow all my instructions and think for herself. Not to mention, someone whose loyalty is unimpeachable. I wish I could stay with him myself, but who would care for the rest of the city?"

"Don't take too much on yourself, Gaius. No one has cared as long and faithfully for the king as you."

"You're a good girl, Guinevere." He pats her head lightly. "And you have taken wonderful care of the king today. I've not seen him looking this well for weeks."

"It's just for today," Gwen rushes to say. "Or, at most, until you find a new nurse." One day caring for Uther Pendragon already has her emotions raw, her body exhausted.

"I suppose I should begin the search as soon as possible then." He leaves her with Uther's medicine and instructions for its use.

Not long after, Gwen has to go through the difficult and unsettling business of again cleaning and changing the king. Her throat is sore from so much reading, so she summons a Court musician to play for Uther, while she goes to the kitchens to prepare his supper and grab a quick bite for herself.

Uther seems peaceful when she returns, so she requests the lute player continue while she once again feeds the king. Her mind wanders during the monotonous task. Perhaps when it is done, she may put him to bed. How late is she expected to stay with him? Perhaps she can request another servant to take over, or maybe guards at the door will be sufficient. She decides to ask Gaius; she can ask him if he has found someone else to nurse the king tomorrow, as well.

"Guinevere?" Arthur's voice is warm, surprised, overwhelmingly grateful. "You're caring for my father?"

A single glance at Arthur's face as he strides across the room is enough to bring Gwen to her feet. "My lord," she says, curtseying low.

Arthur ignores her implied warning—and her more overt one of looking from Arthur to Uther to the musician—and takes her hands in his, raising her up. "Gaius said Anne was dismissed, but he didn't tell me you'd taken her place."

"Only temporarily, Sire. Gaius needs time to find a suitable nurse." Gwen pulls her hands free and resumes feeding the king. She tries not to see how Arthur's smile falters.

"Oh. Of course." Arthur sinks wearily into the chair by his father's side. He surveys Uther; Gwen feels his perusal as she sits on the king's footstool. Not breaking his gaze, Arthur signals the musician to withdraw. "He looks better today than he has in weeks. Sitting in his chair, helping to feed himself."

"Helping" is a strong word, Gwen thinks, given that she is moving his arm for every bite, but she recognizes Arthur's desperation to believe his father will recover. "I read some of those old reports to him; sometimes it seemed like he was listening. Maybe you could tell him about the events at Court. It might help." Gwen isn't sure anything can help Uther, and she is even less sure if she cares. But it will help Arthur to think he's doing something.

"It you really think it would help..." Gwen smiles reassuringly at him, so Arthur clears his throat and begins, "Well, uh, pretty quiet day. Cenred's brother Lot was officially crowned as his successor and sent a diplomatic envoy here. Given how much money and how many thousands of men Cenred lost, Lot's kingdom will not be a threat for sometime.

"Oh, I received a letter from Uncle Aggravaine today. He extends his sympathies for everything we've been through and asks if I have any use for him at Court. I know the two of you had your differences, but I need counselors I can trust, Father. I need..." Arthur's voice catches.

Seeing the sheen of unshed tears in Arthur's eyes, Gwen reaches over and takes his hand in hers. She doubts Uther is present enough to notice; even if he is, she is done hiding her feelings for this man. Arthur presses her fingers in silent thanks and continues talking to his father about the state of the realm.

Eventually, Uther starts to doze, his head nodding forward on his chest. Before Gwen can call for the guards to move him, Arthur picks up the king, as if he weighed no more than a child, and carries him to bed.

There was a day years ago, when Gwen stood at a distance and watched Uther cradle Arthur the same way as he stumbled across the castle square. Gwen hadn't cared about the king's pain then—it was mere weeks after he had her father killed—she doesn't now. Her eyes had been only on Prince Arthur—the kingdom's and her own greatest hope, bleeding and broken—as they are now. Arthur is not bleeding, not broken, but so breakable, she thinks, as she watches the gentle way he tucks in his father and kisses his brow.

"What do I do, Guinevere?" he asks, eyes fixed on the sleeping king. "I would stay with him if I could, but Camelot..." He looks up at her, jaw tight, mouth strained. "Who can I trust?"

Uther had her father killed. He tried to have her killed. Twice. His lies have driven an irreparable divide between his children. He has been nothing but a blight on Guinevere's life.

She doesn't think about any of that. When Arthur asks her who he can trust, the answer is simple. "Trust me, Arthur." If caring for Uther is what Arthur needs from her, then that is what she will do.

(It's what you do when you love someone.)


	9. XXVIII

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**XXVIII.**

_This said, _I am thine—_and so its ink has paled  
With lying at my heart that beat too fast._

Guinevere's courtship with Arthur Pendragon was singularly free of almost all correspondence. He wrote no sonnets adoring her eyes; she sent him no missives harbouring locks of hair. They were both too sensible—and too aware of the consequences if they were caught—for that. (Also, Gwen is convinced the only word Arthur would find to rhyme with "eyes" is "spies.")

In the years prior to Arthur placing a crown upon her head, she received only two letters from him. The first one doesn't count, as it was written by someone else and intended for someone else. Gwen burned it. The second came with a red rose and contained only two words. She still has it, that small, stained paper.

Her letter-writing doesn't begin until after the wedding.

When Arthur marches to battle, pursues a quest, or undertakes a lengthy diplomatic mission, his queen is sure of receiving long, wearisome scrolls treating on state business. They all bear the signature of Arthur Pendragon and are closed with the royal seal, but Gwen knows the difference between poor Merlin's handwriting and her husband's. Aside from his signature, the only part of the communications actually written by Arthur are the few words on the small scraps of paper that flutter out of every scroll when it's unwound.

_I miss you_, says the first one, read to her by a nonplussed Sir Geoffrey. Thereafter, Guinevere contrives to open the letters and remove her messages privately.

Through the castle scribe, she dictates an official response to the king's directions regarding the new water storage system. _And I you_ is stitched by her own hands on the ribbon wrapped around the document.

Arthur doesn't mention her reply when he returns. But he wears it round his arm at the next tourney.

During an official state visit to Mercia, Arthur sends a note telling her, _Bayard is going to keep talking until I keel over dead. Remember me fondly._

Gwen encloses her return letter in a black satin bag. _The mourning has already begun._

On an uneventful, long patrol, he informs her, _Merlin is definitely sacked when we get home. I mean it this time. Gwaine's socks are starting to repel monsters on their own merit. I miss the smell of you. Is that strange? I miss the rest of you, too. Maybe you would know how to make Elyan stop whistling. Love, your miserable husband Arthur._

She writes back: _You're not allowed to sack Merlin. You would die. Throw some dirt at Elyan. He'll stop once he chokes on it. I miss the smell of you. It isn't strange. _She sends Gwaine new socks.

Gwen spends three months away from Camelot, overseeing repairs on a summer palace by the sea, while Arthur is kept at Court by an envoy from King Olaf who refuses to leave. Her secretaries transmit detailed accounts on the state of the decay, the cost of materials and labour.

The queen sits at a sawdust-covered table overlooking the waves and writes, _The gulls are calling. The tide rolls in with a tremendous crash. It rivals even a jousting tournament for noise and is infinitely more beautiful. I cannot wait until you are here with me, my love, until I may kiss you with the roar of the sea in my ears and the taste of its salt on your lips, until the tempest and the tides batter the windows while we make love in our safe, warm bed._

Arthur sends back money for the labourers and a note for Gwen. _Told Olaf's man to sod off. Be there tomorrow._

As much as Arthur strives for peace, he does not always succeed. King Lot challenges Camelot, as his brother Cenred did before him. Camelot's armies march for the boundaries, their king and commander resplendent in the front. Queen Guinevere stands on the battlements until they recede to the size of ants, before she turns to her own duty of ruling the nation.

Countless epistles are sent between the war camps and the castle, between King and Queen. But the ones between Arthur and Gwen are short and wearied.

_Last peace talks failed. Whatever happens now, I love you._

_You will lead your troops to victory, Arthur, and return safe as always. I still have faith in you._

_Balin and Balan fell today. Give their mother our condolences. I would give half my kingdom to see your smile tonight._

_The Court has complained all day about my rationing inside the palace as well as without. Are you sure I can't be more useful to you at the front?_

_It's over! I ordered Merlin to immediately take me home to you in a swirly wind, but he said he couldn't do that. I told him, "greatest wizard of all time, my foot." He said he does know how to turn me into a toad. So we're coming home the old-fashioned way. See you soon, though not as soon as if Merlin weren't such a useless—damn, he saw that. Bye, love!_

Guinevere loves her letters. She keeps them in an alabaster box on her vanity and reads them over when she misses her husband—an all-too-frequent occurrence in their marriage. The notes are silly and sweet and short and meaningless. There are no sonnets in praise of her eyes, no essays of an hundred lines in tribute to her charms. There is just Arthur, loving her in his splendid, inarticulate way, more true than the author of a thousand poems.

The candles burn low as she laughs and cries over the messages of a lifetime. Guinevere sits in their room alone and watches the first rays of the sun climb over a distant horizon. Arthur is somewhere in that horizon, off to a gathering of the kings of five kingdoms, with the dream of Albion as one glorious nation.

Gwen's heart stretches and expands like the light over the land. She takes up her quill and ink. _Accomplish your task, Sire, and come home to me._

Arthur writes back a week later. _As my Queen commands. _He delivers it himself.


	10. XXXIII

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**XXXIII.**

_Yes, call me by that name,-and I, in truth,  
With the same heart, will answer and not wait._

To almost everyone in her life, she has been Gwen. Gwen is such a simple, unassuming name for such a simple, unassuming girl. Gwen is so helpful, so friendly, so small. It takes only a moment out of one's day to say, "Hello, Gwen," and be greeted with a smile, a kind word, a ready hand. Takes even less time to forget her.

Her mother named her Guinevere and called her that from the moment of Gwen's birth until her last word on earth.

"It's such a big name for our tiny girl," Gwen's father complained once as she swung on his strong arms.

"She'll grow into it," Mum insisted.

Guinevere stopped her play, stood on her own two feet and walked proudly down the street. She loved being Dad's sweet Gwen, but she treasured being her mother's Guinevere.

After Mum's death, she is Gwen for so long most people forget she was born with another name altogether. Guinevere never forgets, but she doesn't mind if other people do.

Morgana gives Gwen a book of fables for her fifteenth birthday. It is the first book she has ever owned. She is pleased and proud, and the first thing she does is write, _Property of Guinevere Thomas _on the front page. Seeing her full name staring back at her makes her feel, somehow, that her mother is watching her, is proud of a daughter who serves in the palace, who has learned to read and write.

The book is large and unwieldy, but, for weeks, Gwen carries it with her almost everywhere. She often has to set it down, of course, to take up Morgana's hairbrush or a laundry basket or a broom. But she keeps careful track of where she leaves it and returns to it as quickly as possible.

One day, she sets it down on a table in a passageway not far from Morgana's chamber. Almost the full day passes before she can reclaim it.

It is a wretched day. Morgana decides she is tired of all her favourite dresses, the ones Gwen has carefully made ready for the night's feast, and picks instead a wrinkled, too-short frock at the back of her wardrobe. Gwen has to alter, clean and press it within the day, in addition to her daily chores. They are short-handed in the kitchen, as well, and call on reliable, hard-working Gwen to make up the deficit. She divides the sweltering summer afternoon between the laundry tub and kitchen fire.

All of this before the serving of the feast, a duty Gwen usually enjoys—one can learn so much about a person's character by observing them at a meal—but which becomes a nightmare this evening when that wretched Prince Arthur starts reading aloud from Morgana's diary.

Morgana's face flames with rage and humiliation before she calls him the foulest names she knows and chases him from the room. Arthur's triumphant laughter echoes back at the gathered guests and is soon joined in by Uther, who dismisses the event as boyish high spirits.

Gwen, already hot, tired, and overworked, burns with rage against the king and his son for their treatment of her lady. She is further angered by her preoccupation today, which no doubt gave Arthur the chance he needed to steal into Morgana's chambers and take the book which holds all her deepest secrets, from the latest youth to strike her fancy—Leon—to her frustration with how Uther treats her.

As soon as Gwen has a moment unobserved, she rushes from the dining hall to Morgana's chambers. Predictably, Morgana is weeping, but Gwen is glad to see the diary back in her possession. A few hours of Gwen's comforting, and Morgana retires to bed, embarrassed, pride-sore, but already plotting her revenge.

Gwen sighs as she finishes tidying her mistress's chamber. She longs for the day when Morgana and Arthur's childish feud will end.

Her day began before the sun rose, and it is after midnight when Gwen blows out the last of Morgana's candles. She almost sleepwalks back down the passage which leads to her book and, beyond that, home.

The book—_her _book—is not there. Shocked awake, Gwen panics. Perhaps it was knocked off the table in the bustle? She searches the floor, the nearby chairs. She knows she's in the right hallway, but she's so tired. Maybe she's wrong. So she checks every passage, room, and alcove she has trod the whole day.

Her book is gone.

Trembling with exhaustion and a sense of loss she can't explain, Gwen stumbles blindly home. She tells herself someone probably found it and took it to the Court Library. Geoffrey will help her find it tomorrow. She tells herself it doesn't matter; she knows the stories by heart anyway. But it does matter, and the tears don't stop until she falls into her bed and needed, all-too-short sleep.

The next day, Morgana asks Gwen if she's well. Her eyes are red, her movements listless.

"I'm fine, my lady," Gwen replies automatically. She tries to work more quickly, with her usual cheerfulness. But when, on an errand, she finds a reason to visit the library, only to be told that Geoffrey received no books of any kind the day before, she once again finds herself fighting back tears.

Morgana sends her home to get some rest. Gwen doesn't argue. She is halfway down the stairs when her least favourite voice in the world calls out behind her, "Gwen!"

She wants desperately to pretend she hasn't heard, to keep walking...

"Guinevere!"

Gwen freezes. It has been so long...not since her mother...and how does _he _even know? She turns around.

From the top of the stairs, Arthur Pendragon smiles cheekily and holds her fables out to her. "Here. This is yours, I believe. Morgana chucked it at my head last night. Figured I should keep anything this heavy out of her reach until she calmed down. Has she?"

Gwen doesn't answer him. She hasn't heard a word. With a cry, she runs up the steps and pulls the book to her chest, hugging it in her joy. One by one, she flips lovingly through the pages.

"Property of Guinevere Thomas, it said," Arthur says, his voice cracking in that hilarious, pubescent way which had prompted Morgana to have a donkey brought out for him to ride on the last hunt. "That's you, right?"

"Yes, that's me," Gwen whispers, eyes still soaking in her returned treasure.

"Guinevere. It's...it's a pretty name."

Gwen glances up and sees Arthur's face is beet red, his hand playing nervously with the boyish hair falling onto his neck. Whatever is the matter with him?

"Thank you," Guinevere says. She draws herself up proudly, the way she used to for her mother. The way she can when she remembers she is Guinevere, and not just Gwen.

She never forgets that she is Guinevere, and oddly, Arthur never does, either. He has few reasons to call her by any name at all during the next several years. But whenever he does, she is almost invariably "Guinevere." Stranger still, Gwen does not mind. Each time makes her feel a little taller, a little stronger, a little closer to growing into her name.

Arthur calls her name after she yells at him over porridge in Ealdor, after he nearly dies, and after she saves his life. He calls her Guinevere in public and alone, between kisses, before goodbyes, when he is happy just to see her and when he swears he'll never look upon her again.

But when he announces, "I crown you, Guinevere, Queen of Camelot," she finally knows the name she was always growing into. She wonders if her mother always did.


	11. XXXVIII

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number.

**XXXVIII.**

_First time he kissed me, he but only kissed  
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;_

"Enough!" Uther shouts as he glares down at his dripping children. Morgana's long braid is coated with honey—more than enough to make Gwen wince at the long night ahead of her—while Arthur's head and shoulders are covered with stew from the pot Morgana dumped on him in retaliation.

"But, Father, she-"

"Sire, he-"

"I said, enough! Neither of you is allowed back into this banquet hall until you learn manners. If you're going to behave like children, you will be treated like children and take your meals in the nursery."

Uther overrules the series of protests and adds to their punishment by telling them they will spend the next month, sunup to sundown, receiving a series of lectures on court etiquette from Geoffrey of Monmouth.

In the three years Gwen has known them, Arthur and Morgana have never agreed on anything, but they agree on this: Geoffrey of Monmouth is the most boring old windbag in Camelot. There is a short debate on whether it is Gaius, the Court Physician, instead, but after a three-hour tirade on how to hold one's goblet, the matter is definitively settled.

"A whole month," Morgana groans to Gwen after the first day. "My ears will fall off, and my brain will leak out from the holes they leave. You have to come with me."

Gwen knows it is useless to argue. Morgana refuses to suffer alone. So while Arthur doodles images of fat, bearded men dying increasingly violent deaths and Morgana hides a book under the table to read whenever the librarian isn't looking, Guinevere learns the proper way to eat at feasts she will only attend as a server. She is taught the proper terms of address for people she is quite certain will never come to Camelot, caliphs and shahs and high priestesses of religions now outlawed. There are two days spent on tournament customs—the only time Gwen knows Arthur is listening—and one on the proper protocol for leaving and entering a room.

Then comes bowing. Arthur and Morgana are forced to practice every variation of angle required from Camelot's prince and the ward of the king to every visiting dignitary they could possibly meet. Gwen almost doesn't blame them for the way they start adding dirty gestures behind the old man's back.

But it is not until he tells Arthur to kiss Morgana's hand that Geoffrey meets outright rebellion.

"I'd rather kiss a troll."

"I won't let him touch me! The pigs are cleaner."

They are both pink-cheeked and fidgeting. On occasions like these, Gwen sometimes wonders if all Arthur and Morgana's quarreling is an attempt to deny a sort of attraction between them. She is amused for the first time in days, until Geoffrey ruins everything by huffing, "All right, I shall kiss the Lady Morgana's hand, and Your Highness may practice with the serving girl."

Gwen feels the heat flushing her own cheeks, as she waits for the round of objections to this new plan. It doesn't come. Morgana, it's true, goes from red to greenish-white in a matter of seconds, but her lips clamp determinedly together. Evidently, she has decided a boring old man is less objectionable than an irritating young one.

Gwen looks to Arthur and finds him already watching her. She has seen that look on his face before—on the training field, before he fights a new opponent. He is taking her measure.

Her back stiffens. She pulls her shoulders straight and her chin high. She will not be embarrassed or discomfited by this obnoxious, arrogant prince. She bobs a small curtsey, as though it is beneath her dignity to bow her head to such as he. "My lord," she says and holds out her hand.

Arthur's mouth quirks into an amused grin. "My lady," he intones solemnly. He takes her hand in his—the library is hot and musty, and both their hands are slick with perspiration; _it's quite disgusting, actually, _Gwen thinks—and bows as low over it as if she were a queen. She is trying to decide whether Arthur is mocking her or Geoffrey or court manners in general when his lips brush gently across the back of her hand.

She yanks her hand away, wipes her sweaty palm along the side of her skirt, and tries to ignore the way her heart thuds painfully against her ribs.

"Very good," says Geoffrey. "Tomorrow, we start dancing."

–

_The second passed in height  
The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,  
Half falling on the hair._

Gwen buries her father under a tree, near their favorite meadow of wildflowers. The fact that she is able to bury him at all is something of a miracle; the bodies of those executed for crimes against the state usually being left to rot as a warning to others. But Gwen spoke to Merlin, and Merlin to Arthur, and, in a surprisingly short time, she had her father's body back, along with gravediggers in the persons of two of the prince's squires.

She doesn't announce the burial to her friends and neighbors, unsure whether their pity or their terrified refusals will be harder to bear. She sends a letter to Elyan's last-known address, but has little hope that it will reach him.

So she buries him alone, with only the sound of the shovels and the far-off calls of birds to distract Gwen from the paralyzing realization that her father is going under that dirt never to return. The numbed oblivion of the first few days is gone, fear and confusion replaced by this aching, unbearable loss. Never more will she see Dad's broad smile, or laugh at his bad jokes, or cry against his strong chest. She will not wake in the morning to the sound of iron against iron from the forge next door, or fall asleep to the even rhythm of his snores.

When the grave is filled and the men have left, Gwen lets the last of her barriers down. She falls to the ground, fingers digging in the new-tilled earth, and sobs until there are no tears left inside her. Maybe there never will be again. Never could anything hurt like this...

It is dusk before she turns back to Camelot. Before entering the lower town, Gwen wipes all traces of tears from her eyes and raises her chin proudly. She looks straight ahead, unwilling to hear the gossip, see the well-meaning friends.

A light burns within her window. Panic seizes her, as she relives Torin's grip on her mouth, his whispered threats in her ear. She quickly berates herself; Torin is dead, and no intruder would be likely to leave a candle burning where anyone can see. Another thought strikes her. Perhaps her brother has come home after all!

Gwen rushes home and flings open the door. "Ely-" The name dies on her lips, as she sees Merlin setting a bowl of stew on the table.

"You should have told me you were burying him today, Gwen." Merlin's voice is half-sad, half-reproachful. "I would have come with you."

"I know." The momentary rush of life has fled. Gwen slowly slips off her shawl and puts it away. "I wanted to do this alone."

That's a lie. She wanted to be with her brother. She hadn't wanted to bury her father at all. But it's the only answer she has for Merlin.

"Sit and eat, Gwen. You look exhausted."

Gwen obeys him. She cannot think of a reason not to. Merlin fusses for a while, filling her goblet with wine, bringing her bread, stoking the fire. Then he sits across from her and surprises Gwen by telling her about the day he met her dad. It's a funny story, involving mace practice with Arthur and a dented helmet that wouldn't come off.

Before Merlin finishes, there is a knock on the door, and Gwen's next-door neighbor walks in with a freshly-baked cake and a story of her own to share, how Tom chopped all their firewood that winter five years back when her man broke his arm. The stablemaster arrives with a bag of apples and tales of the horse only Tom could ever get to stand still enough to shoe. Gaius brings a duck he swears he and Merlin would never eat, a comforting hug, and a whisper in her ear about how much her father loved her.

The visitors, the presents and the stories keep coming until Gwen's home and heart are full near to bursting. Tears in her eyes, a smile on her face, Gwen is listening to her father's best friend recount childhood adventures when there is another knock at the door. Merlin has taken over greeting late arrivals, and Gwen doesn't even turn around until John's voice trails off.

That's when she sees Arthur Pendragon looking nervous and uncomfortable in her doorway. Gwen rises and curtseys, which awakens everyone else in the room enough to do likewise.

"Sire," is all Gwen says. She cannot think of anything else to say. Why is he here at all? At her house, the home of the man he arrested, the man his father executed.

"Guinevere, pardon the intrusion. I was looking for Merlin, but I seem to have interrupted a party. Forgive me."

A low murmur has replaced the stunned silence of the crowd, punctuated by loud attempts to shush it. Her friends and neighbors are wondering why the Crown Prince of Camelot is speaking so kindly to a humble maidservant. Guinevere is wondering that herself.

"It is not a party, Sire. It is a wake, to remember my father." Saying it is the first time Gwen realizes that is exactly what it is. She suspects Merlin's hand in the whole arrangement. Perhaps even in Prince Arthur's unprecedented appearance.

"Your father was a good man, Guinevere. A hard worker, a loving father, a kind friend. Anyone who had the privilege of knowing him must feel his loss." Arthur's speech-which sounds a little too rehearsed, a little too eloquent from everything Gwen knows of the prince—stops just short of admitting Uther was wrong to have Tom killed. But the crowd in Gwen's tiny house has no trouble reading that into what he does say.

A toast is raised in honour of the prince; he is invited to stay for another in honour of Tom. He does. People begin to talk freely again. They tell more stories, shed more tears. But Gwen is thinking about Merlin, about Arthur, about what they have done and why they have done it.

Finally, it flits through Gwen's mind how she told Merlin people would always think her father guilty, because he tried to run. Merlin played down her fears, and this is how he attempted to put them to rest, with a public show of support from Prince Arthur himself. Gwen wishes there weren't so many people around. She would fling her arms around Merlin and thank him the way he deserves. In her whole life, she has never had a friend so dear.

But Arthur...why would he ever agree to this? She knows he feels guilty over her father's death, but he has already apologized to her for it. Privately. Where no one could see him doubting his father, the king. Whatever their differences, Arthur loves his father no less than Gwen loves _(loved, oh, that wretched past tense, which does not fit, because her love has not gone anywhere)_ hers. Arthur is not trying to publicly stand against his father by being here, however it may appear.

So why is he here?

Hard and long as she considers the question, Gwen can find no answer that satisfies her. She watches Arthur as he listens to story after story of good Tom the blacksmith. He smiles and laughs, and, twice, Gwen could swear there are tears in his eyes. He is more gracious than she has ever seen him, or even believed it possible for him to be.

After about an hour, Arthur slips out to have a quiet word with Merlin. Merlin returns; Arthur does not.

Without thought, Gwen runs out the door. She mumbles something about needing air, but all she really needs is one answer from the man in the red cape, striding towards the castle.

"My lord, my lord, _wait!_" she surprises herself by commanding.

Equally surprising, Arthur does. He stops at the corner and turns around. "Guinevere? Is everything all right?"

"Yes. No." She is out of breath from her ridiculous chase. It is lucky all her neighbors are in her house and unable to see the fool she's making of herself. "Why...why did you come?" She forgets the _my lord_, forgets the _Sire_.

By the light of the guard tower's torches, she sees Arthur frown. "I told Merlin you wouldn't want me there, but he insisted it would..." He trails off, surveying her uncertainly.

"It would what?"

"That it would mean something to you, to have me there. He said a lot of rubbish frankly, but that's Merlin, and I reckoned he knew you better than I, but if you were hurt or offended-"

"I wasn't." Gwen interrupts the prince, which is surely some sort of crime, but neither seems to mind. "I was...am grateful to you for coming, Sire. Thank you."

Arthur winces as though it's painful being thanked by her, or maybe just being thanked for this. "Well...Merlin said you needed support from the people who care about you, and..." He clears his throat.

He cares. The reason Arthur came is as simple and complex as that—he _cares_. Gwen feels a confusing whirl of sensations that she is too overwhelmed by grief and exhaustion to think about.

"Thank you, Sire." For coming. For _caring_.

"Don't, don't thank me," Arthur says in a rush. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Guinevere." Then he does something oddest of all. He leans down and kisses her on the line where her brow meets her hair. His touch lingers a moment, a blessing, a benediction. As soon as he pulls back, Arthur nearly runs to the castle.

Gwen walks slowly home, thinking how strange and comforting is is that he should kiss her exactly as her father did.

–

_The third upon my lips was folded down  
In perfect, purple state..._

Three days. That's how long Arthur Pendragon has been staying in her house. It feels ever so much longer.

Gwen is exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally drained. She has cooked and cleaned for him, mended his clothes, and polished his boots. She has slept two nights—barely—on the floor and one in-between sheets she, for some reason, could not forget he had slept upon. Sleep-deprived and irritable, it is no wonder she lost her temper and yelled at the future king of Camelot.

Twice.

In seventy-two hours, Arthur has made her want to wring his neck, laugh until her sides split, protect him, beat him, hold him tight and give him all the hugs she's sure he missed growing up. He's still such a boy, really, an arrogant, obnoxious, lovable, darling boy.

And someone wants to kill him. Not just someone, one of the most feared assassins in the five kingdoms. Gwen is terrified. Nervous, too, and she doesn't believe it's all about the hidden killer.

Her arm burns where Arthur grabbed her last night, though his touch was gentle. His eyes, so blue, so innocent and vulnerable, as he told her...what? What exactly was he trying to tell her before Merlin burst in?

Gwen does not know and is afraid to find out. She prepares and serves Arthur's breakfast in near total silence. Arthur, too, is strangely subdued, perhaps readying himself for the tourney, or for facing his would-be murderer. Once, their eyes meet and quickly slide away.

She doesn't want him to leave this way. She wants him to know that whatever he's said, or she's said, whatever he's done, or she's done, she is on his side. Gwen longs and wishes and prays for the day when Arthur takes his place on the throne. Whether by a tournament lance or an assassin's danger, he cannot, _must _not, die. But her tongue—so swift in voicing thoughts she should better keep to herself—fails her now.

Opening her mouth to tell Arthur these things, she finds herself muttering about bringing in laundry instead. Gwen rushes outside and yanks clothes off the line. "Idiot."

She gives the next dress a particularly hard tug. Her eyes light on the long, white cloth next to it. It is nothing at all, a makeshift bandage for a sprained ankle, but when she looks at it, she remembers flowing ribbons of bright-coloured silk tied onto arms, helmets, and the ends of lance poles. She twists the cloth around her fingers and returns to the house.

They continue their awkward dance around each other. Wanting to hand him the cloth, Gwen passes Arthur his cloak instead. He looks at her finally as he's tying the cord.

"One more match. Tournament will be over," he says, though whether to reassure her or himself Gwen is not sure.

She smiles back anyway. "You can go back to being Prince Arthur." He nods, smiles, and it's now or never. She looks to the cloth in her hand. "Um, I thought you might wear it. For luck."

It is nothing. He could ride with satin gloves or lace handkerchiefs, given by ladies and princesses from every corner of this great Isle. A dingy, servant's token...what is she thinking?

He reaches for it. Their fingers brush. The skin of her hand is singing.

"Thank you," he says. And means it.

Not having the slightest idea what to say, Gwen smiles. And nods. She pulls her hand away, feels stupid for not doing so sooner, feels stupid for just standing here saying nothing while Arthur looks at her and looks at her and...

Kisses her. Maybe she should have seen it coming, but she didn't, she didn't, and now it is here and she doesn't know what to do except...let him. Her eyes flutter shut. The world slows. There is sunlight streaming through her window, warming her cheek, as he is warming her lips. Exactly the same, actually, so gentle, barely a movement, and yet felt all the way past her skin into her bones and sinew and heart.

When he pulls away, she follows him, lips longing to hold onto this implausible taste of sunshine. Arthur looks as surprised by the kiss as she is, which is odd, since he's the one who began it. But, then, maybe he hadn't known it would feel like that, either.

Guinevere waits for him to say something, but when he does, it is only, "I must go." He strides out of her house without a backward glance.

For a moment, she feels deserted, abandoned. She closes her eyes and puts into memory every heartbeat of that kiss. Sunbeams warming dewdrops. The gentle hearth-fire of home.

(He will ask, "Do you remember the first time I kissed you?"

She will smile.)


	12. XL

**Title:** Count the Ways  
**Fandom:** Merlin  
**Pairing:** Gwen/Arthur  
**Rating:** PG  
**Spoilers: **Entire series.  
**Summary: **Forty-four Arthur & Gwen stories inspired by Elizabeth Barrett Browning's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_. Missing and expanded scenes, as well as pre-series and future!fic.  
**Disclaimer: **Merlin does not belong to me. Neither do the quotes at the beginning of each piece, which were taken from EBB's _Sonnets from the Portuguese_, each from the corresponding number. Lots of shout-outs in this one to various parts of the Arthurian legend, grabbed and twisted shamelessly from Malory's _Le Morte d'Arthur, _White's _Once and Future King_, and Tennyson's _Idylls of the King. _

**XL.**

_Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!  
I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth._

Camelot in May is a sight to behold. Flowers in riotous blossom, woven into hair of every shade under the sun. Dresses of radiant beauty, armour polished until it shines, and tournaments of prowess during which men strut and women swoon.

After sixteen years of presiding over the festivities, Queen Guinevere cannot help but be a little cynical. The names may change, but the stories never do. Jealousies, betrayals, illicit passions, secret trysts, love tokens, battle wounds, angry scenes, tender reunions...and all that in a standard day for Sir Gwaine. Or so she's told. (Considering it's Gwaine, she believes it more often than not.)

Leonora and Lynette—two sisters as close as any Gwen has known—are no longer speaking to each other over the affections of Sir Gareth. Enid was no sooner wooed and wedded than her paranoid husband locked her up in a tower. Elyan has a different lady's favours tied around his arm every month. Sir Palomides sickens to death for love of a princess to whom he has never spoken. Lamorak pursues a woman old enough to be his mother. Vivian abuses Pelleas behind his back and to his face, and it only whets his appetite for her.

Guinevere presides.

She sits on a golden throne and observes their folly, keeping her thoughts to herself, only interfering to prevent bloodshed, if possible. It is easier when Arthur is beside her, for a single look between them can communicate frustration or amusement or a thousand messages no other can read. But he is not here now, called away by unrest on the northern borders.

Maybe that is why, when she is told of the deserted girl who killed herself and floated downriver as a message to her faithless lover, Gwen voices the first thought that enters her head. "Ridiculous."

Luckily, only her ladies-in-waiting are there to hear. "It's perfectly true," insists Leonora. "I saw the letter she wrote myself."

"I believe you. I meant it was a ridiculous thing to do."

Leonora gasps. "She died for love, Your Majesty!"

"Rubbish. She died for spite and selfish vanity." One of Gwen's lifelong demons asserts itself. Once she starts speaking her mind, she cannot stop. Even knowing it likely her words will spread the length and breadth of Camelot by day's end cannot hinder her tongue. "If she truly loved this man, she would never have given him this guilt to carry."

Lynette shakes her head, smiling ruefully. "You have forgotten what it is to be young and passionate, my lady."

"Perhaps." The face and figure which greet her in the mirror each morning are not the ones she had on that long-ago day when she became queen. But she is not so old that she cannot remember the awe of looking up into Arthur's face and realizing she was his wife. She doubts she will ever be that old. "But I'm not wrong."

The jousting begins the next day. Gwen takes her place in the royal box, annoyed with her husband for leaving her alone with this task. The irritation swiftly changes to surprise when she catches sight of a vaguely familiar face in the line of competitors presented to her.

"Sir William of Daira," is announced. Gwen chokes back her laughter. Arthur even found the same farmer to act the part. His face is rounder, hair thinner, but he smiles and waves at Gwen with the same enthusiasm—although with fewer teeth.

"Who is _that?_"

"He must be joking."

"Who let that fool into the lines?"

Guinevere lets the gossip swirl around her without comment. But when Sir William unhorses his first opponent, she calls him to her and ties her hair ribbon to the top of his lance. The whispers intensify at her bizarre gesture. Who is this stranger knight that rides with the favour of the queen? Their virtuous Queen Guinevere, too, who has only ever given her tokens to the king.

Gwen worries that, coupled with "Sir William's" skill with the lance, might make people suspicious. It does, but only of her.

"My lady, are you sure that was wise?"

"Your Majesty surely cannot mean-"

"Sir William won the greatest jousting tournament I have ever seen," the queen answers them boldly. "It was many years ago, and I have never forgot. I have done him this honour in memory of that, and in hopes that he is still a finer warrior than these vain, foolhardy young knights."

Her words silence the Court in her presence, though she has little hope of quelling the rumours. She does not care, so long as they leave her to enjoy the tourney in peace. Gwen's heart is racing, her blood pumping hot and fast. She has not felt so interested in jousting in years...not since the last time Arthur was in the lines.

_What made him do it?_ she wonders. Has he, too, been confronted with accusations of encroaching age? It is a foolish risk; Camelot needs her husband to rule, not gamble his life in a meaningless test of strength.

Gwen tries to be irritated with him and fails. With every opponent vanquished, her pride in him mounts. She is more thrilled with his prowess now than she was as a young girl, watching him wear her favours for the first time. He kissed her for the first time then, as well, and thousands, millions, of kisses shared since have not dimmed the memory of the sun-drenched beauty of that very first one.

"My lady, you are flushed. Do you need some wine?"

Guinevere waves off her maid's concern. She is not thirsty; she _hungers_. Hungers for Arthur's gentle lips and strong arms. Her ladies are wrong. She has not outlived the age of passion. She merely judges all the love she sees against the steady burning ember she and Arthur share. Everything else is a pale imitation.

Arthur does not win the tourney. He is unhorsed in the final by the enigmatic Sir Galahad. But the king laughs about it later, with more good will than he would have shown when he was young.

"At least you're the only one who knows how your king was disgraced," he chuckles in the privacy of their bedchamber.

"You were not disgraced, Arthur." Gwen runs her hands along the muscles in his shoulders and chest, softened with age, but still the body of a warrior. "You fought bravely and well and unseated men half your age."

Arthur winces. "Don't remind me. I'm getting old, Guinevere."

"Never." She brushes his tousled, blonde hair back from his brow. "You will be Camelot's beloved boy king until you're an hundred, at least."

"Only if you remain at my side." He rolls her underneath him and smiles mischievously down at her. "And don't go running off with this Sir William the Court tells me you're mad for."

"He is the finest knight in Camelot, my lord."

"He has another advantage, which you have failed to mention."

"Indeed. And what is that?"

"The favours of the finest lady."

Arthur ends further conversation with a kiss. Gwen feels bathed in sunlight.


End file.
